


And It All Fades To Black

by NotMyHeroin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Breaking and Entering, Dead Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Oblivious Castiel, Pie, Sad Sam, cremation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotMyHeroin/pseuds/NotMyHeroin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel decides to scatter Dean's ashes, but only finds himself running into minor complications and disagreeing bakers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It All Fades To Black

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so this is like my first fan fiction ever,so it's bound to be pretty suckish at parts and all. I might make this a one shot story , but who knows. Also, this was based off a prompt on Tumblr (otpprompts.tumblr.com) where person A spreads person B's ashes at their favorite places. Sorry it's kinda short, but other then that...yeah...have fun.

It was painless enough, hasty enough. Dean had blades to his skin for forty consecutive years before. Torn and bled till his soul was nothing but tainted bloodlust. Dean’s fought his battles with worse. A bullet in the skull was all it was. A serene day and a thirsty psychopath when they acted as though all was settled and calmed over. The first day they could lie on the grass and mutter words of warm affection.

He could’ve effortlessly mended the wound. He could’ve regenerated the cells and stitched the skin with his grace. He could’ve, he would’ve, but memories become nightmares that never fade. And Dean had nightmares, gore and loss that left him screaming by sun rise. He would proclaim words of reassurance about his health, but they were all lies, dirty dirty lies. Dean was most definitely not okay. So very much not okay. 

So he didn’t pull Dean back into his sadistic reality. He let Dean enter the tranquility he had never experienced before- the tranquility of death’s embrace, of heaven’s kiss. It’s what Dean truly deserved to have, not sleepless nights and infected cuts. Though he had always expected Dean’s end to be met by a monster’s mercilessness, he had forgotten humanity is cruel. And with a gun, humanity is crueler. 

Sam wasn’t as likely minded.

Sam sobbed. Sam begged. Sam prayed. Sam attempted all that he knew of. Failure was what greeted him at the finish point. Sam, yearning and defeated, felt the truth of his situation finally bare its actuality. His brother was gone for good. No angels or marks or demons to resurrect him once more. Sam knew that the day would near that he would come to peace with his situation, but in his desperation he fabricated intense obsessions. Obsessions that uncovered the worst of Sam. Sam’s heavy heart was the anchor tied to his foot, suffocating him in a sea of regrets.

He tried to aid Sam-guide him through the dark that had begun to blanket them-, but Sam responded with drunken slurs and closed doors. He was left to only silent strings of hope that Sam would be his own mentor out. 

Sam’s mentality couldn’t stop the funeral, though. 

They gave him a proper Hunter’s funeral, as he would’ve wanted. They set his stiff body alight and watched as it all turned to ash. The freckles that brought life to his skin and the eyes that held the purest hue of green all morphed into powdery imprint of a once rowdy personality. And for the first time, eyeing the dance of the flames in the chilled air and standing next to a shushed Sam, he felt suppressed agony begin to return from hiding. He missed Dean with his whole being. 

He missed Dean, the man who always fought by his side. The man who kept loyal to him even when odds pointed the other direction. The man who had called him family. The man who gave him a new life. The man who corrupted his pure mind in the best way possible. 

The man who he loved him.

The man who loved him back.

How he wished to feel Dean’s love fill him with profound and certain promise once more. In fact, he, in a certain tense of the word, could. Angels of the lord are granted access to heaven. He was an angel of the lord. He had heavily contemplated visiting many times before. He almost did, but it would be an absolutely selfish act on his part. Dean was in a place where he would be gifted all he ever held beloved and disturbing that could invoke punishing emotions that Dean should never have to undergo once more.

So- as time dragged along and anguish still hung heavy in their heads- he, Castiel, found himself halted in front of small bakery with the last physical evidence of Dean’s existence clenched tightly in his two hands. The cremation urn was simple thing, rounded black marble that he easily slid his fingers along. It was bland, but beautiful. Castiel thought that maybe if he were to spread Dean’s ashes at places he was most smitten to, Dean could truly forever be known as a part of them, forever be with them. Therefore, Castiel had set out to do so, and though he was aware it would be impossible, he pretended he knew what parts of Dean he was leaving behind.

Dean’s heart-his love- was left on the hood of the Impala, his brains-his knowledge- was left on the dirt around the bunker, and his testicles- his sex drive- was left in a corner of a dingy strip club. Castiel was rather doubtful of the last option, but found himself doing it anyway. Leaving out the strip club would be of an offense to Dean.

This bakery wasn’t a direct pin point of his intentions. In fact, he was pretty sure Dean had never stepped in this pastry shop, but Dean fancied pies, and they made pies. Castiel dug his fingers into the surface of the container once more before pulling it closer towards his chest and stepping inside the building.

The scent of freshly made bread and sugar was the first thing Castiel registered. It was an inviting aroma that brought him reminders of gentle kisses and midnight cuddles. The decoration was frilly and cozy with a pleasant sitting area and presentation of goods splashed with color. There only a few peppered customers lingering who paid him no heed as he sauntered towards an attendant standing behind an extensive counter.

“Hello, sir. Welcome to Baker’s Wife. What would you like?” the attendant recited, her voice soft and bubbly. She twisted a blonde lock as her gaze lingered towards the urn in Castiel’s hold. A frown began to carve into her face, but, she hurriedly recomposed her optimistic facade. Castiel strengthened his grip on jar in his short sprout of insecurity and prompted himself to do what he came for.

“Where are your pies?” his voice came out in a raspy octave as he tilted his head in question.

“Well, right over here, sir. We’re always told we’re the best around,” the attendant answered, directing Castiel towards a section of the counter where the granite top gave way to even shelfs occupied by coordinated pastries. They were gorgeously adorned with vibrant hues and fruits, but to Castiel they held no appeal. He knew he would taste every atom, not the concoction they created. The attendant motioned her hand over an area stacked with diverse baked dishes, commonly with a covering. Pies, he would guess.

There were in plentiful stock and variety. Some were completely topped with golden tinted crust that darkened at the edges, while others had a cross hatched top that made Castiel pounder of how they held themselves. There were few that struck him as ridiculous, but he didn’t question them. Dean would’ve wasted away his wallet if he was ever in the presence of all that Castiel beheld before him. Castiel slipped a glance at the attendant who had momentarily paused their session to attend to another’s needs and pulled off the cover of the urn. He had been a nuisance to pry open the lid when it was first sealed, so he had, with purpose, not applied epoxy any time afterwards like had been suggested.

Castiel lightly circled the rim of the opening with his fingertips, savoring the chill of memoirs that ran through him, and sucked in a harsh breath. He snaked his hand inside- attempting to avoid the harsh bone fragments- and gripped the sandy substance in a tight fist. He pulled his arm back out and began to scatter Dean’s remains on the pies, watching as the rosy, lavender, and nude shades contrasted against the gray. He found the sight mesmerizing. Everyone else didn’t.

“Sir! Sir, you shouldn’t be doing that. Sir!” the attendant screeched, her arms gesticulating wildly at her sides. Her proclamation was accompanied by long drawls of gasps and disbelief by on-looking customers. Castiel sends the attendant and all who caught his sight hostile glares as he grabbed a second round. Castiel had become to realize no one had favorable manners now a day.

“It’s for Dean,” Castiel states, emptying out his hand over the pastries that hadn’t been greatly affected by the first time coming. It had begun to form a powdery blanket over the pies, a blanket that would always hold heat of Dean’s spark. Castiel dug into his coat jacket to reveal a small flower in his palm. Its stem was snapped, tone contaminated with black, and its pedals dangling limply-must’ve happened on the journey here-, but Castiel used it never less. He tossed it in the air and watched it descend clumsily before making a landing on a turnover perched on the top shelf. 

Castiel had heard that it was complimentary to include a flower when scattering a cremation, even though they did mention that it was for water, he found that it added a nice touch no matter the circumstances. Castiel felt a tug at the corners of his lips at the sight of what he created. It was a flawless combination of death, creation, and the silvers of life all combining into one entirety. He was certain Dean would appreciate it.

“What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing!” Castiel heard someone holler. It was dissimilar of the attendants; it was a strong burlap sewn by authority and fury. Castiel averted his eyes to man bounding his direction. His eyebrows were furrowed and nose wrinkled into an expression of wrath; a kitchen robe, smears of flour, and a rolling-pin raised above his head all contributed to his inauspicious aura. Castiel decided he didn’t like this man.

“What is that in your hand? Is that a cremation urn? Are you spreading dead people on my food?!?” the man continues, clutching the collar of Castiel’s in a balled fist. Castiel felt repugnance puncture his nose, for the odor of the man’s breath had a large range of rotted cheese and liquor. He met the man’s scowl with slanted eyes as he attempted to pull away from his grasp. He didn’t succeed.

“It’s for Dean,” Castiel retorts smoothly, refusing to break his calm exterior. The looming threat of the rolling- pin hovering above his head was one he decided to ignore; its shadow on his head but an empty reminder. 

“Get the fuck out of my store, you asshole!” the man towed Castiel by the coat to the exit, Castiel allowing himself to be dragged along. He was in no search of violence, and he had done what he had visited for. The rubber of Castiel’s shoes trailing along the floor produced a noise of friction that made the man give into the slightest wince; it left Castiel content that, even though it was in the most insignificant way, he had been able to fight back.

Castiel gave the pies one last fleeting glance, till he stumbled out of store, a rough shove the origin of his unbalance, and fell to the pavement. He didn’t pick himself up. He only pulled his fingers into his hand and gripped at nothing as a sudden thought dawned on him- remorse at leaving Dean at the hands of those who would only call what was left of him repulsive. He had earlier forgotten Dean was only another attractive face to others, mostly those who had found his act as bizarre. What was the point of the act if it were to be destroyed?

Castiel carried himself off the pavement, moving his hands down the fabric of his coat to rid of unwanted debris. He craned his neck to catch the sight of the attendant carrying the pies away. He wanted to attack, to claim what he marked as his. He wanted to punch the man who had forced him out, to watch his teeth lie on the floor, but he didn’t. He sat himself down and waited. 

He waited as the customers scurried out with wordless wonder and as the sun kissed the horizon. He waited as the last of light was washed by black. He waited as the man locked the doors and sent him invectives. He waited as the silence held him hostage. Waited, staring at the urn as it reflected the glow of the moon, the inverted colors developing the sight of the night sky. He waited; then broke the window. 

It easily gave way to his fist, the shards mirroring the stars as they twinkled under the sky’s gaze. Some fragments found their way into his skin, snuggling tightly between his muscles, but he paid them no heed as he climbed into the store. His steps produced a song of broken glass beneath him as he retraced the path the attendant had taken while carrying the pies. It led him through a pair of metal doors that gave into the slight touch. They groaned as Castiel pushed them open, revealing the full metal kitchen. It was chef paradise that Castiel didn’t find intriguing as caught sight of what he had come for.

They were an apparent change on the flat metal positioned at the back. Their crust was crumbling as filling began to dominate the top, blending with the cinders. They weren’t as they were before, but they were presentable. Castiel picked up the first on his right, testing its weight on his palm and fiddling with the edges of the ripped pan, which was only a flimsy reflective material. 

He carried them one by one, cradling them in his arms and carrying them out the window. He shielded it from the wind with what he could and placed them behind the store. It was dull, but isolated enough. He positioned them all against the wall, leaving the fullest ones to middle and the damaged ones along the edges. The flower was careful placed in the middle along with handful of less eye pleasing plants Castiel had picked. 

Castiel kneeled down and clasped his hands together, as though to pray for the god he didn’t have, but only let himself think with his closed tightly. He thought of Dean’s laughter, how it has become the night’s song. He thought of the color of his eyes, the plant’s purity. How Dean’s touches became the sun’s warmth. How his heart became the humanity’s love. 

Then, his eyes snapped open. Dean was everywhere, but nowhere. At his finger, but miles away, and that wasn’t enough for Castiel. He felt greedy. He wanted, but couldn’t receive. He felt his eyes flicker to the stars as they winked at him from above. He just hoped that one day the ache would go away.

Or maybe it was that he didn’t want it to.


End file.
